HomeComing
by Cor Scorpii
Summary: AU. John and Sherlock had been inseparable since they were young boys, but John had always planned on going to the military to become an army doctor. Sherlock encourages him to go, but can he survive such a long separation? Sort of a reverse reichenback feels.. Enjoy!


**Sooooooo I came up with this the other after watching clips of dogs greeting their owners when they come back from deployment. Sherlock is a little OOC and there aren't a whole lot of extraneous details because I wanted to really concentrate on his and John's relationship. Not gonna lie, cried while writing it. Not to sound cruel but I hope you cry too. Enjoy!**

It had been an altogether normal London day when John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had first met; there was no thunder crackling in the sky, no overt dramatic indicator that something important was happening like the movies portray. No, instead it began with John looking up from his math test when the principle entered Mrs. Atlay's 4th grade class to announce a new student would be joining them. It was simply chance that the teacher had decided that John would act as the new kid's guide to the school, but he had greeted the new boy with nothing short of enthusiastic kindness when they were introduced.

Sherlock had always been a quiet boy and it took a few months before he had started opening up to his only ally at the school. John's friends hadn't taken too kindly to his assumption that letting the tall, dark haired stranger into their group would be perfectly ok. They sneered at his blank expressions and started calling him a freak after the first time he had outed one of the boys about still wetting the bed. When John later asked how he knew, he simply shrugged and replied with a short, "I observe."

Despite his friends' comments, or maybe because of them, John still spent a lot of time with Sherlock, eventually leading him to completely forgo his previous group. They'd spend lunch times looking around the cafeteria as Sherlock deduced the students around them, smiling when John called him brilliant. John's family soon grew familiar with the sight of their son's blond head bobbing next to his friend's shoulder as he tried to keep up with the taller boy's long strides as they headed towards his house. They would spend hours in John's room, talking about everything from the idiots in their classes to what they wanted to be when they grew up. John had looked quite confused when he had first heard Sherlock's answer.

"A Consulting Detective? I've never even heard of that."

"Of course you haven't, John, I invented it myself. I would solve the cases that the police are too stupid to figure out."

John had simply chuckled at his friend and smiled fondly at him as he started describing some of his most recent observations.

"Well, I guess if you could help the police, then London would be a better place. I'm going to go into the army."

"Why on Earth would you do that? You're not some mindless grunt to go running into a field of bullets. Don't be so dull."

"I wouldn't be just a mindless grunt anyway Sherlock," John replied with a huff. "I'm going to be a doctor. I could really help people out there, I could save lives, do something good for my country. Besides, the army would pay for my schooling." Sherlock grimaced at this last part of his friend's answer; it was no secret his family would be hard-pressed to afford Medical School for their youngest child, and while John was smart, he probably wouldn't be able to get a good enough scholarship to pay for his entire tuition. The subject was soon dropped but Sherlock couldn't get over the little twist in his heart at the thought of John disappearing for months on end, and possibly not ever coming back.

They remained inseparable into their high school years. Sherlock was still quiet to everyone else, and while John made a couple friends in his other classes, he still only ever really hung out with his childhood friend, except when he had rugby practice. Sherlock would be there though, on the sidelines reading his textbooks while the team played, rain or shine, on the field. Their friendship only started hitting some bumps when the girls in John's classes started noticing his cute face and rugby physique. John soon started going on dates and after this, Sherlock started being irritable nearly every time John saw him. He shrugged it off to his friend simply not liking that they took time away from when they hung out and continued to act normally towards him.

This unnamed tension finally reached his peak when Sherlock accidentally walked in on him snogging a girl named Janet in a back hallway. Sherlock's face had remained carefully blank, and if it had been anyone else, they would've thought he just felt awkward at what he had seen, having never kissed a girl himself. It had been obvious for years that despite Sherlock's model looks and gorgeous curls, he had no interest at all in anyone. This wasn't just anyone though, it was John, and behind the blank expression on his best friend's face, he could see the blinding fury behind his icy blue eyes. This sight had only lasted a moment as the taller boy had spun on his heal and disappeared around the corner, ignoring John's call to wait.

John didn't get to talk to Sherlock for days after that. If they were in the same class, his attempts to start a conversation were blatantly ignored and when passing in the hall, Sherlock had kept his eyes distinctly away from John's deflated figure.

It became too much when a week later they still hadn't talked no matter what John did, and he decided enough was enough. The following Saturday he made the trek up to the Holmes estate, determined to find out what the hell was going on. He was greeted at the door by the butler, who looked unsure of what to do until Sherlock's older brother came to his rescue.

"Ah, John. I trust you are doing well. How's your sister?" The older Holmes seemed oblivious to John's distraught expression, smiling and casually adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit.

"I need to see him Mycroft." John replied in a surprisingly steady voice, lifting his chin defiantly and keeping the man's gaze.

"I'm not sure that is wise at this time, he is in one of his moods today."

"Please," John said in barely more than a whisper, his strong posture reducing to one of distress as he pleaded for entry. "Please let me see him. I… Something happened this week and I need to talk to him. I can't stand this anymore. Please Mycroft…"

The older Holmes looked at him for a moment before moving aside and letting him enter the foyer of the grand house that Sherlock's family lived in. John took off his shoes and jogged up to Sherlock's room, not even bothering to knock as he burst into his friend's space to find him crouched over a microscope at his desk. The friend in question looked up for a moment, at first looking annoyed before wiping his expression blank again and returning to his experiment.

"Rude. What are you doing here?" he asked in a monotone. John's posture deflated even more as he gazed at his friend's profile.

"I needed to talk to you."

"Well, I don't want to talk to you. I'm in the middle of something so if you would please show yourself out, I wo-"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" John all but yelled, interrupting Sherlock midsentence. "I've been trying to talk to you for a week and you refuse to even look at me Sherlock! What was I supposed to do, just sit back and let you ignore me for the rest of the year?" Sherlock gave no reply, instead turning his back to the boy who had barged into his room. At this John snapped. He strode forward and grabbed Sherlock by the back of his shirt, taking the taller boy by surprise and pushing him against the nearest wall, giving him no choice but to look him in the face. "Enough! You will talk to me, you will tell me what's wrong!"

After the initial shock wore off, Sherlock's face transformed into one of fury and with a growl and a great push he switched their positions so that he had John pinned against the wall, his hands held by his head as he towered over the shorter boy.

"Fine," he spat, his face bare centimeters from John's, "You want to know what's wrong? For months I've had to watch you go out with girl after girl, coming back from your dates with that stupid giddy expression on your face and hating it all the while! Do you not even comprehend what it does to me? Every night I think about you and feel sick at the thought of those stupid girls getting to kiss you and flirt with you and touch you while I'm left alone with my thoughts, wishing it were me instead! Do you know what torture that is for me? I can't stand it!" he shouted, and with that he crushed his lips against John's, earning a surprised yelp from the other boy.

John barely had time to register Sherlock's words before his mouth was upon him. This kiss was nothing like any of the others he had experienced with the girls at school. This kiss was bruising, meant to cause John pain, to punish him. Sherlock bit at his lower lip, getting another whimper from John as he vainly tried to fight against his iron grip on his wrists.

At first there was nothing but shock and his automatic reaction had been to fight it, but as Sherlock finally pulled away to let them both gasp for breath, John took a moment to consider the heat now running through his veins. His very skin tingled with excitement and as he looked into the intense gaze of his friend, he knew he wanted more. This time it was John who surged forward, capturing Sherlock's lips and feeling the other boy eagerly respond. Soon they were a tangle of limbs as John tangled his fingers in his friend's curls to keep his face as close as possible while Sherlock slid a knee between John's legs to roughly grind against his hips. They both moaned at the contact and began moving in earnest, each getting more and more desperate as heat built up within their adolescent bodies. Sherlock wrenched his lips away from John's in order to latch onto his earlobe, his panting loud and harsh.

"Let me touch you John, let me feel you, I need it, please…" He reinforced his statement with another harsh grind. That, combined with the sultry tone that his voice had taken nearly made John come undone then and there. Within moments they were shedding their shirts and John gasped at the first feel of Sherlock's bare chest against his own.

"Oh God, Sherlock…" he whined and Sherlock moaned in response, quickly fumbling with their pants until both erections were free to rub against each other. This caused renewed groans of pleasure and Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around the both of them, causing John to shudder and scrape his nails desperately against the blank canvas of Sherlock's back. "More, please, I'm so close Sherlock…"

It wasn't long before they were shouting out their release, their legs shaking with the effort of remaining upright as they came over Sherlock's hand. They slowly slid down the wall to the floor, leaning heavily on each other as they recovered from the intense orgasm they had shared. Downstairs, Mycroft smirked and returned to the government papers in front of him.

There were no more girls for John after that. They decided to keep their relationship a secret at school merely to avoid the idiots who would give them grief over it, but their families were soon updated to their new status. Mycroft merely nodded, saying he would inform Sherlock's parents who were often out of town, while John's sister Harry gave him a friendly punch to the arm, having come out to their parents a few years before. Mr. and Mrs. Watson were surprised, but overall accepting of the new couple, causing John to sigh in relief.

Their day-to-day remained virtually the same as it had before, with a few satisfying additions to their routine in the form of passionate kisses that left them breathless. They progressed, as most couples do, to more touching and experimenting with what made each other feel good. The first time Sherlock had gone down on John had left him dazed for a half hour afterward. Evidently, Sherlock had been researching techniques and John was still wondering as he recovered how anything could feel that good. When his brain functions had mostly returned, he eagerly went about returning the favour, not having studied as Sherlock had but proving to be a fast learner going by his lover's reactions.

One day a couple months after their first kiss, while they were doing homework in John's room, Sherlock had abruptly looked up at his boyfriend and asked him if he wanted to have sex. The shock of the blatant question had nearly made John fall off his chair. After much deliberation, they decided to set a date. They would wait the few weeks until their spring term was over and that's when they'd take that next big step.

The next month was so full of sexual tension that they could barely stand it. Knowing what was coming proved to be a giant tease as each time they found themselves entangled it seemed harder and harder not to just take that leap. They managed though and soon enough it was summer vacation and their set date was almost upon them. The morning of found John to be quite more nervous than he had intended; they had long ago decided that Sherlock would top so that awkwardness would be avoided, but John still worried. What if, after all this build up, he ended up being complete rubbish and completely ruining Sherlock's first time? His concerns must've been written all over his face because as soon as he had timidly entered Sherlock's room, the taller boy wrapped him up in his long arms, tucking his blond head under his chin.

"We don't have to tonight, if you don't want to John…" At this John shook his head against Sherlock's chest.

"No, I want to! I'm just nervous is all…" Sherlock nodded before leaning down and capturing John's lips is a slow kiss. He felt his lover relax slowly as he kissed back and they made their way over to the bed without breaking their kiss. They broke apart when they got there, John sitting on the bed and shuffling back to make room for Sherlock. They went just as slowly and carefully taking off what clothes they had on, Sherlock continually keeping John's mind occupied by letting his hands and lips trail over the smaller boy's skin. He moved down to John's half-erect penis, giving it a languid lick from base to tip before taking the head in his mouth and sucking gently. John mewled in pleasure, writhing as Sherlock's talented mouth brought his dick to full attention. Sherlock moved back up to kiss John's lips before reaching for his bedside table, on which sat a small bottle of lube and a string of condoms. He grabbed the lube and looked to his lover.

"Are you sure John? We can stop if you need…"

"No, I'm ready. I want this, Sherlock, I want you."

Sherlock gave John another kiss before squirting some lube into his fingers, settling between John's legs as he sat back against the pillows, his gaze nervous but trusting as he felt Sherlock's fingers at his entrance. Slowly he pushed one slick digit past the tight ring of muscle, almost gasping at the tight heat that greeting him. John whimpered and winced lightly, his head falling back against the headboard as Sherlock slowly worked his finger in farther. Soon he had it all the way to his knuckle and he paused, letting John adjust to the new feeling.

"Still ok?"

"Yes… It's just different…"

"It'll feel good soon…" John just nodded and let Sherlock go on, slowly pulling his finger out before pushing back in, curling his finger slightly. After a few more experimental thrusts, he added another finger, stopping at John's hiss of pain and waiting for him to nod before continuing. They continued in this fashion until Sherlock could slide three fingers into John without it causing too much discomfort.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked in a hushed tone.

"Yes," John replied, just as breathless. Sherlock took one of the condom packages and ripped it open, rolling it down his weeping erection that until then hadn't received any attention. He slicked himself up with a generous amount of lube before positioning himself over John. They leaned forward at the same time to meet in a languid kiss as Sherlock slowly pushed into John, a groan escaping the back of his throat as heat enveloped his head.

"Oh God, it feels so good John…" John whimpered in response, burying his face into Sherlock's shoulder and wrapping his arms around his back in a death grip. Sherlock continued forward, doing his very best to avoid simply pushing in all at once just to feel more of that delicious heat. Soon he was in to the hilt and shaking from the effort of holding still, panting heavily into John's ear. After a minute, John experimentally moved his hips and the boy above him shuddered, his mouth open in a silent moan as his eyes rolled back. They started a slow rhythm, their breath getting shallower by the second as pleasure started to course through their bodies. Eventually the slow pace became impossible to Sherlock and he rolled his hips a little faster and harder into John's, causing them both to moan. It wasn't long before their thrusts became fast and shallow and Sherlock reached for John's prick to pump it in time.

"Sher… Going to…"

"That's it John, come for me, let go…" With a choked sob John did just that, clutching to Sherlock as he spilled out over his own stomach. Sherlock took a few more frantic thrusts before grunting his release. They shared one more passionate kiss and Sherlock gingerly pulled out, his dick soft and the condom full. It took a few minutes for Sherlock to recuperate enough to stumble to the bathroom for a towel. When he came back he cleaned up John's mess and slid into bed next to him pulling the covers over them both and cradling his lover in his arms.

"So you felt good?" John asked timidly, his cheek pressed against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock scoffed.

"Obviously." They were quiet for a little while before John's shy voice broke the silence.

"I love you…" It was said so quietly that Sherlock almost missed it. He held John even closer and placed a tender kiss on his forehead.

"I know. And I love you."

The rest of the summer sped by in a blur of sunshine, and soon it was their final year of high school. The first few months went by just as fast and it was suddenly time to start applying to universities.

"I think I'll go to Kingston. They have a decent Forensic major." Sherlock said, his head on John's lap as he read through the different brochures he had brought home. John 'hmm'ed quietly, running his fingers through his boyfriend's hair. Sherlock flicked his eyes from the paper in his hands to look up at the distant expression on John's face. "John? Is something wrong?"

"What? Oh, no, just thinking…" Sherlock raised his eyebrow and sat up, moving to sit half cross-legged beside his partner.

"What are you thinking about?" John bit his lip and sighed.

"Remember when we were little and we talked about what we wanted to do when we grew up?"

"Yes…" Sherlock replied slowly, his voice taking on a wary edge as John continued to keep his eyes averted.

"Well, I still want what I did back then…"

"Want… to join the army." It wasn't a question. John simply nodded slowly, finally turning his gaze to lock on Sherlock's, gauging his reaction. There was a small bit of surprise there, some hurt and a look of sad longing.

"I've been thinking about it all term. I just… I'm scared now. Scared because enlisting means leaving London, and…" He let the sentence drift into silence, knowing Sherlock knew what he hadn't said. Leaving him.

"And that is truly what you want? To be an army doctor?" Again John nodded, his hand moving to grip Sherlock's tightly, the shake in his fingers portraying the sadness he felt at the thought of leaving this beautiful man behind for an extended period. In a moment, Sherlock rushed forward, folding himself into John's embrace and they clutched at each other as if John was leaving within a matter of minutes, not months. Their quiet sobs filled the room and they stayed there for hours, whispered 'I love you's being exchanged among the tears.

John applied the next day. John's mother cried when he mentioned it to her. She knew of his intentions of course, but she still held him tightly to her chest and whispered that she loved him and he'd better come home in one piece. He could only nod and cry silently into her shoulder.

Over the next few months things were relatively normal; John and Sherlock went to school every day and worked hard to get the last good grades they'd need for post secondary (not that it was difficult for someone as smart as Sherlock). It wasn't until the last month of their spring semester that the impending loom of graduation and John's deployment really hit them. The couple spent every waking moment together, always holding hands or finding ways to keep some kind of physical contact. They made love often, and Sherlock cherished each occasion and stored the memories away in his heart. Too soon, it was the night before John was to leave. His bags were packed and ready by Sherlock's front door and his alarm was set for 5:00 the next morning. They did not make love that night, instead they held each other, kissing and whispering sweet nothings in the darkness, Sherlock clutching at John's shirt like a lifeline.

"I'll wait for you." He murmured in the early hours of the morning, staring seriously into John's loving gaze. "I don't care how long you're gone, I will write to you and I will wait for you to come back." John could only nod, tears flowing down his cheeks and he leaned in for another soft kiss.

"I'll come back to you. And when I come back I swear I'm going to marry you." Sherlock clutched at him even tighter and their kisses turned desperate. All too soon John's alarm went off and Sherlock nearly screamed.

"Not yet, not yet, please not yet…" he pleaded, clenching his eyes shut as if he could block out the passage of time. They cried together for a few minutes before John slowly pulled away, leaving the perfect world they created within the blankets on the bed, and started pulling on his new uniform. He turned to Sherlock as he came to stand in front of him, tears still silently streaming down his cheeks as he raised his hands to cup John's face, his eyes darting everywhere as if he was determined to remember every line and freckle.

"I'll call you when I get settled. Stay out of trouble while I'm gone ok? Don't blow up your desk again or anything." Sherlock managed a watery chuckle and pulled John to him for one last hug.

"No promises. You come back with your heart still beating, or I'll never forgive you." It was John's turn to chuckle as he took a deep breath, determined to commit everything about Sherlock to memory.

"I promise."

Sherlock watched his love walk down the driveway to the gate and raised his hand as John reached the road. John looked back one last time and raised his in farewell before bringing it to his chest, right over his heart. After John disappeared from sight, Sherlock collapsed on the front steps by the door, sobs wracking his form as he cried his despair. Mycroft joined him not long after, being uncharacteristically brotherly as he sat beside his sibling and let him cry into his shoulder.

Sherlock didn't stop crying for the rest of the day. He stayed cooped up in his room with the blinds all shut, clutching the shirt John had left behind for him and trying to return to that place where they were together. A servant brought food in at one point but it went untouched as Sherlock slipped in and out of a restless sleep, his cellphone clenched in his hand so he wouldn't miss when John called.

It wasn't until the next day that the call finally rang through and Sherlock answered it on the first ring.

"John..." He heard a soft sigh on the other end.

"Damn it's good to hear your voice…" Sherlock curled into a ball around the phone pressed to his hear, his eyes closing as he greedily soaked up John's words.

"I miss you already."

"I know. I miss you too. Sorry I didn't call last night, after orientation and everything I was so drained I passed out. How are you?"

"Terrible. It's worse than I imagined." There was silence for a moment, then John's hushed voice returned.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry…"

"No, don't be sorry. This is what you've always wanted to do John, you are going to save lives." There was silence once more and Sherlock wished John would say something, anything else, just so he could hear his voice again.

"I've got to go… My phone time is up for now. I'll call you again as soon as I can though, promise."

"Ok. I love you John."

"I love you too Sherlock. With all my heart. Be well, make sure you eat something if you haven't already. You're not allowed to wither away while I'm gone."

"I will."

"Bye."

There was a click as the phone disconnected but Sherlock kept the phone by his ear, replaying the conversation in his mind and constantly repeating the sound of John telling him he loves him.

The next few days were the hardest Sherlock could remember so far in his short life. He ate as requested by John, but he couldn't recall the taste of the food. John managed another call, apologizing that it had taken so long but he was being thrown headlong into training. Sherlock understood and asked him about how it was going, prompting John to give details, anything to keep him talking.

Days turned into weeks, and Sherlock did his best to keep himself distracted with as many experiments as possible during the day, and often well into the night. It was when he settled down to sleep that he felt the ache in his chest the most, the John-shaped hole that throbbed with how much he missed him. He dreamt of him a couple times, cherishing the chances to see his face again. He started carrying a printout of a picture he had taken months prior; it was a candid shot, he had caught John by surprise and his expression was something between amused annoyance and utter adoration. Even after he memorized it, he still spent time gazing over the glossy image, running his fingers over the curves of John's face. Before he knew it, a whole month had passed since that last night and as much as he hated to admit it, he was getting used to the ache he felt, and found it a little easier to push to another part of his mind. Still there of course, but more subtext than a blaring neon sign behind his eyes.

Then the summer was over and school was starting. Sherlock immediately found his classmates to be dull and uninteresting and so concentrated solely on the lessons. Unfortunately, these too felt slow and he found himself daydreaming more and more often of John's face. The ache in his chest came back in full force one night and he sobbed within the seclusion of his room. Just before Christmas, he got a call from John informing him that they were going to be shipped out that week to Afghanistan and Sherlock's heart clenched. Phonecalls would be even fewer and far between, letters being the easier form of communication with loved ones. John promised to send a letter as soon as he was stationed so that Sherlock would have an address to mail to.

The letter in question came in the mail about a week and a half later and Sherlock's eyes hungrily drank in every word in the neat scrawl of John's writing.

_Sherlock,_

_Here is my letter as promised. We just got released to settle for the night and the first thing I did was grab paper to write on. It's very hot here, and much dryer than the humid summers in London. After the sun goes down however it cools down pretty quick. I've been shown the medical facility I'll be continuing my training in, and the other medics seem like generally good people. A bunch of us share one of the barracks so we have a lot of chance to get to know each other. Should make working together easier._

_The conversation just turned to whoever we're writing to back home. I described you as the smartest person I've ever met, my best friend and of course the man I love. I showed them that picture of us I printed out before I left, they all said we look cute together. I didn't ever really think that's how we would be described, but I'll take it. They all 'awww'ed when I said I was going to marry you one day. Sorry if this seems too mushy for you, but I love you so much it hurts._

_I don't really know what else to say. I feel like I want to keep writing for pages and pages, just to feel connected to you but I don't have many other updates so far. I miss you, of course. I'm thinking about you all the time. Can't wait to hear back from you. Sweet dreams._

_Yours, John_

Sherlock read the letter twice more, smiling to himself at John's description. He went to his desk and hurriedly grabbed a pen and paper. He hovered the tip over the plank page in front of him for a moment before finally starting to write.

_John,_

_Glad to hear you're settling in and that you don't seem to be surrounded my morons there, at least by normal standards. I agree that 'cute' isn't exactly the world to describe us, but what can be done. It's not surprising that it's so hot there. I've been researching the climate and I'd like to get some soil samples to study, if you'd be willing to collect some for me. It will help me compare how blood absorbs into the ground in different zones for one of my classes._

_School is still dull, I considered dropping out but Mycroft convinced me to stay another semester at least. We shall see how that turns out. I am of course learning much more through my own experiments than the classes. The teachers are slow and most of the student body is too idiotic to theoretically be able to function. They wouldn't be able to help the police solve the case of who didn't refill the coffee pot, let alone a decent murder._

_The shirt you left is losing its scent faster than I hoped, but it is still your shirt so that will have to suffice. And Mycroft's new diet is failing miserably, I saw him sneaking a slice of cake the other day. Nothing more to report really for now. I miss you as well, and love you. Take care._

_SH_

The next day he sent the letter, along with several vials for the soil samples he requested. He spent a moment reminiscing before sighing and getting ready for another boring day at school.

Over the next few days he eagerly anticipated John's next letter. He even began watching the news with Mycroft for updates on troops overseas but try as he might to identify John's form in the clips they showed, it was impossible to tell one soldier from the next. He was quite surprised a week later that it wasn't a small envelope that arrived for him, but a full-on package. He ran to his room, jumped on his bed and eagerly ripped off the brown mailing paper, opening the box to find a letter on top, with a couple vials of sand and some kind of cloth. He set the box aside and opened the letter first.

_Sherlock,_

_I flat out laughed when I read your letter. I should have expected you to ask for souvenirs of some kind, though dirt wasn't what I would've thought of first. I only filled a couple so far, I figured you'd need a wide sample size so I'll get more as we spread to different areas._

_Training is going well. Had my first patient yesterday, came in with just a few grazes, nothing too deep. Patched him up and sent him on his way within the hour with some pain meds for tonight. I know it's nothing big, but I still felt a certain sense of accomplishment._

_I hope you didn't bug Mycroft too much about his diet. Cake is pretty hard to resist. What I wouldn't give for some sweet treat from that bakery down the street from your house… Hint hint. Of course the taste of your lips against mine would be much more appreciated, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen any time soon. I'm trying to remember how you feel pressed against me, but I'm afraid my memory is starting to fade. I think about you every day._

_In response to your comment about the shirt, I hope the one I packed in the box will do as a replacement. Just send the other one back if you could, I only have so many shirts. I tried to pick one that wasn't too sweaty._

Sherlock had to pause and reread the paragraph. 'The one I packed…' Then it hit him. Without another thought he dumped the contents of the box onto the bed and there, the mysterious cloth was indeed a slightly dirty tshirt. Sherlock snatched it faster than blinking and pressed it against his nose, taking as deep a breath as he could. The scent hit him like a ton of bricks and he moaned out loud, a shudder overtaking his thin form. It was almost like John was right in front of him and he greedily inhaled again. To his slight surprise he found himself getting hard and without another thought, he fell back against the mattress, fidgeting with his pants until he freed his now quite stiff dick and groaning again as he stroked himself roughly with one hand while the other continued to hold the shirt up to his nose. He didn't bother starting slow, but instead pumped his fist as fast as he could stand it, his toes curling.

"John, John, oh fuck, John…" he chanted like a mantra, bucking his hips into his own hand and feeling his orgasm fast approaching. He had felt aroused at thoughts of John since he left of course, but those occasions were met with slow strokes that ended in a not-quite satisfied sigh. This time he came with a strangled cry, panting as endorphins flushed his brain and made the world go fuzzy, John's name still spilling from his lips. It took a few minutes for him to come down from his high and even after he did, he stayed where he was, contenting himself with thoughts of the man he loved. It was a good half hour later when he remembered there was more to the letter and he quickly fetched it and continued reading.

…_I tried to pick one that wasn't too sweaty. Hard to do, what with the heat and all._

_I'll be going on my first field run tomorrow with my squad, and I'm both nervous and excited. No hostility has been reported lately in the area so it should be safe. It's what I've been training for, and of course they say that if you stick to the training you should be alright._

_The guys in my barracks have started having a poker game most nights after training and that's been fun. We don't play for real money, but it's still a nice way to spend an hour or two before we retire. I won tonight._

_Anyway, I'm starting to feel like I'm drifting off so I'll wrap this up. I love you, and miss you more than I can explain. Enjoy the samples, and the shirt._

_Yours, John_

Sherlock smiled as he came to the end of the letter and, lazily setting it next to him, he turned to curl once more around John's shirt. He sighed and soon drifted off, dreaming of a strong body pushing into him and whispering adorations in his ear.

This is how the next few weeks went. Sherlock would get a letter, he'd write a response, he'd watch the news and eagerly await the next letter, and repeat. School was soon no longer enough to distract him and he dropped out without another thought. Mycroft was disappointed, but what could he do? Genius was such a burden. It was at this point that Sherlock started looking for an apartment of his own to live in, finding quite the haven on Baker street. He even managed to get a soft spot for the landlady, Mrs. Hudson. By the next time a letter arrived, he had moved in to the new place and begun to scour for jobs that would stimulate his ever-expanding mind.

He described his new dwelling to John in his next letter, as well as giving him the new address. He told him about the skull he had found in an antique store window, that now resided on the mantle in his living room. He said he liked to talk to it, since he didn't really have any friends. He also told him that he finally managed to get his foot in the door as a consulting detective; earlier that week he had stumbled on a crime scene and within 5 minutes had called out whom the killer obviously was. The DI on scene, a tall man with greying hair had skeptically asked how he'd known. After explaining in his most bored voice how he had deduced it, the group of Yarders there were all packed and led away. The next day he had received a call saying he had indeed been right, and would he be interesting in looking at a few other cases that were on the verge of going cold. Sherlock had agreed and so had started his new career.

The next night, he was watching the news as usual for updates on the war. His heart twisted hard enough to make him gasp in pain as the news anchor reported that hostilities had started again towards the British troops, with several IEDs going off earlier that day. Later that night, after Sherlock had retired to bed for a restless sleep, he got his first phonecall from Afghanistan. At first all he could hear were John's choked sobs before he got control of himself enough to say that he had lost his first, and subsequently second and third patient all in one day. One of the men who had died had been in John's training squad.

"There was so much blood Sherlock! I never thought… Fuck!"

Sherlock did his best to soothe his lover over the phone, part of him feeling relieved that John hadn't been the one on the operating table. It took a few minutes but John soon quieted to heavy breathing.

"I'm sorry this is how my first phonecall went… My section leader saw how upset I was and let me call you from his office phone. I miss you so much Sherlock, I needed to hear your voice."

"I miss you too John. How much longer to we have?"

"I don't know, a few minutes. Tell me about London, tell me what you've been doing. Please, just talk to me."

And so he did, saying pretty much everything that had been in the letter that was sent only yesterday. When the time came to say goodbye, Sherlock had tear tracks down his cheeks, though he tried to keep it out of his voice. They said their 'I love you's and once again Sherlock was left alone in his room with nothing but the ache in his chest.

The ache got worse over the next few weeks as it came upon one year since John had first left Sherlock's sight. It didn't help that hostilities were getting worse and the time between letters started getting longer and longer as John's duties were piled as high as the latest body count. The letters themselves also became shorter, more distant, as if the John who had been writing to him all this time had started to be lost in the chill of war.

Sherlock soon sunk into a deep depression, often locking himself away in his room for days on end and only leaving when DI Lestrade had a good enough murder for him to solve that would distract him from his misery. On those occasions he would be out all over London for days at a time, never letting himself stop to breathe even for a moment lest his emotions swallow him whole. When John's letters did come, the scribbled text only made Sherlock feel worse. The written 'I love you's started to feel like they were mocking his pain and he wouldn't write back for days.

It wasn't long before Sherlock finally snapped. The newest letter had simply been too much, despite how little was written.

_Sherlock_

_I don't know why, thinking back now that I'm here, I thought I could do this. It seems every day as though I'm losing more soldiers than I save. Maybe I wasn't cut out for this afterall. What I wouldn't give to be back in London with you. I've forgotten the way you feel, and it kills me every day. I find myself spending every night hoping even more than before that your next letter will arrive soon, for it is all I have to look forward to. Everything I see is red as blood. I can't remember the last time I smiled._

_I miss you more than I can ever begin to explain. Hoping to hear from you soon. I love you._

_Yours, John_

Sherlock simply couldn't take it anymore and he let out a furious sob, crushing the letter in his hands and throwing it away from him into the far corner of his room. He angrily snatched up his own piece of paper and a pen and, pained tears running down his cheeks, wrote his response. His pen nearly ripped the paper with the force with which he pushed it across the once smooth surface.

_John_

_I hate you. You could have stayed. You could have become a doctor here. You didn't have to go into the army and I hate you for leaving. I can't do this anymore. This is my last letter. I don't ever want to speak to you again._

_SH_

The next day the letter was sent, and Sherlock remained in his fury for the week following. He packed up every reminder of John he had in his apartment in a nondescript cardboard box that he preceded to shove in the furthest corner of his closet. By the time John's next letter had arrived, the red-hot anger in his veins had chilled to icy indifference. He took one look at the envelope and tossed it into the box with everything else, not even considering opening it. He didn't care for anything John had to say. He was done.

Another letter arrived the next week and it followed the last into the box. A few days later, there was a long distance call on his phone. He ignored it. A week after that came one more letter. This ended up being the last letter to arrive at 221B from Afghanistan, and it remained unopened with the others. Sherlock had closed his heart off to any love he had ever felt for John Watson, or anyone else. There were those he tolerated, and those he didn't, and that was that.

Months passed, and the news talked about the situation overseas getting still worse, doctors being taken farther and farther from their home bases to help the wounded who could not be transported far. Sherlock listened to the stories but they never got further than the icy wall he had built around himself. There was only the next murder, the next puzzle that was put in front of him. What did he care of the troubles in another country? That was Mycroft's job. Sherlock solved crimes in London.

Before he knew it, eight months had passed since John's last letter and his indifference remained. Mycroft tried to contact him and he ignored him every time, knowing what he wanted to talk about. Evidently, Mycroft had received a letter of his own from John, but Sherlock wouldn't hear a word of what he had to say.

On Christmas Eve he was in the morgue at St Bart's hospital, studying the effects of bruising patterns on one of the corpses. The mortician, a mousy blond by the name of Molly Hooper was working off to his left. She groaned as she leant away from her microscope, stretching her arms above her head.

"Sherlock? Do you mind if I turn on the radio?" She received no response so she took it as a yes and went over to her desk where a small black am/fm radio sat. She turned it on and flitted through static until coming to a news channel, turning away after adjusting the volume and going back to her slides.

"…and that was Shirley MacIntyre with the evening weather this snowy Christmas Eve. Now onto the latest update on our troops overseas; Tragedy struck today when a medical truck was attacked with a shower of gunfire on the way back to their base. All members of the squad received multiple life-threatening wounds, including the medics, two men by the name of Larry Collins and John Watson. It is unsure at this point weather these injured soldiers will survive the night. Our hearts go out to their families on this tragic occasion."

There was the sound of shattering glass as Sherlock dropped the flask he had been holding. John Watson. John Watson had been shot. John Watson might not make it through the night. John Watson could be dying this very moment… The bottom seemed to drop out of Sherlock's stomach and he caught himself on the edge of the counter in front of him as his legs gave out. The icy indifference, the wall he had built around the part of his mind labeled 'John Watson', they crumbled in a matter of moments and suddenly Sherlock was tormented by the waves of complete anguish that washed over him.

He vaguely heard Molly ask if he was ok before he dashed out of the morgue, his legs carrying him as fast as they could back to his apartment. Once there, he wrenched open his laptop, hacking into one of Mycroft's remote accounts as fast as his fingers were able to type out the passwords. He quickly found the phone number that would connect him to the medical facility at John's base and snatched his phone. His heart pounded in his ears as the call went through. A young woman answered.

"This is Lieutenant Jones, who is calling?"

"Is John Watson alive?"

"I'm sorry, wh-"

"Is Dr. John Watson still alive? Tell me!" he screamed into the phone, his voice cracking with the weight of his emotions. There was a moment as his words processed and then the voice answered.

"I'm sorry, that information is not available to anyone outside of his family. Is this Mr. Watson?"

"No, no, I'm-"

"I'm sorry sir, if you aren't part of his immediate family I'm not at liberty to discuss his current status."

Sherlock's blood ran cold. He wasn't going to get answers. He wouldn't be able to find out if John was alive. He hung up his phone and ran to his room, snatching up the letters that lay gathering dust in his closet. He ripped open the one in response to his final letter, soaking in the writing he had ignored for months.

_Sherlock_

_Please don't do this. Please don't. You're the only thing that gets me through every day. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry that I left. I have regretted it for months. I need you Sherlock, I love you more than anything. Please don't say that this is over. Please._

_Yours, John_

Even months later it was clear to see that drips of salty water had marred the ink as John had written with tears in his eyes. Sherlock quickly opened the next letter.

_Sherlock_

_I can't stand this. Every day feels worse and worse. Please respond, please I need to hear from you. I feel like I'm going to shatter from the emptiness I feel at the thought that I will never hear from you again. Please write to me. I can't live without you._

_Yours, John_

More tears stained this paper, and the writing was almost illegible. His hand must've been shaking uncontrollably as he wrote. With a heavy heart Sherlock opened the last letter.

_Sherlock_

_This is the last time I will write to you. I have waited in vain for a response and you didn't even answer when I called. I understand now that your last letter truly was your last. It breaks my heart to come to this realization, and I cannot ever describe the pain I feel at never again being able to look forward to reading, or even hearing that you love me. I will never stop loving you though. Until the moment it stops, my heart will beat for you. I can only hope that your life finds fulfillment in your endeavors and that one day, maybe I can catch a glimpse of the smile I so adore, even if it is someone else who put in on your beautiful lips. Please find happiness. Above all else, that is what I want. If I should die in this miserable place, at least I can die knowing that for a time I had the most perfect love I could ever dream of. I'm so sorry._

_Still and Forever yours, John_

For days he waited for updates of the medics who were shot. The news proved useless as it was not brought up again, and even Mycroft couldn't, or wouldn't, tell him if John made it through the night. His only hope was that he would contact him, despite having stated that the last letter was the last he'd hear from him. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a month.

Sherlock was inconsolable. He turned to any alcohol he could get his hands on, anything to drown the pain he felt. All those months, wasted. All those months he could have been telling John how much he loved him, how he couldn't wait for him to come home and marry him. The last shirt John had sent had the barest whisper of his musk underneath the layers of dust that had settled in the cardboard box. Still, Sherlock clutched at it every day, whispering to the unhearing cloth that he still loved John, that he missed him, that he needed him to come home. The shirt never answered.

Mycroft came by at one point but he soon realized there was no point. Sherlock wouldn't speak to him. With that knowledge, he sighed and left the desolate apartment, leaving his brother to wallow in his own misery.

A few days later, Sherlock awoke from the drunken stupor he had put himself into. He stared at the ceiling, feeling hollow from head to toe. He was still here, in a world without John Watson. Why was he still here? There was no point. Puzzles didn't matter, murders didn't matter, nothing mattered when the prospect of ever seeing John Watson again had been snuffed out with a well-aimed bullet. He vaguely heard Mrs. Hudson talking to someone downstairs and he closed his eyes. Who could possibly think they were anywhere near important enough to deserve his attention now that the man he loved was gone?

"Just up hear, I'm fairly certain he's home." There was a vague grunt of ascent from the other side of Sherlock's door and he rolled onto his side so that whoever had the gall to show up would only get to see his back. He heard the door open and a pair of footsteps and what sounded like a cane. "I'll leave you to it deary."

There was silence in the apartment after Mrs. Hudson's footsteps shuffled back downstairs. It felt like it dragged on for hours, though only mere minutes passed. With a huff, Sherlock whipped around, throwing himself off the couch to turn to the stranger.

"What the hell do you wa-" He stopped midsentence as his eyes fell on a vaguely familiar form that stood in the front hall. The man was short, but the lumpy jumper he had on failed to hide the compact muscle that had come from years of hard training. He still had sandy blond hair, though some of it had turned slightly greay despite how young he still was. There were many more lines on the round face than he remembered, caused my months of misery and hard times. The lips that had once held a soft smile instead formed a thin, tense line. He leaned heavily on a cane and stared at the detective, his eyes soaking in every detail.

"I know you said you never wanted to hear from me again, but I had to see you one more time. I understand completely if you want me to go, I just… I just needed this one more time." His voice cracked and there was the sheen of tears forming in his hardened eyes. Sherlock could only stare. He barely moved a muscle, his breath caught in his throat. John finally let their gaze break as his eyes dropped to his feet. "Right. Well… Take care, Sherlock." With that he turned to go.

"John!" His name came out in a choked cry and before he new what was happening, his arms were full of a taller form, hands locked on either side of his head and lips crushed desperately against his own. It didn't take more than a moment for him to drop the cane and eagerly respond, his lips hungrily devouring Sherlock's as his hands moved to grip the detective as tightly as he could. "John, John, oh John you're alive, my John…" Sherlock moaned between kisses, pushing the shorter man back until his back hit the wall and moaning desperately as he heard John mewl in response. It wasn't for another several minutes that they finally broke apart to gasp in large breathes, their eyes roaming greedily over each other's faces.

"I needed to see you one more time, even if you hated me, I needed to see you. I missed you so much Sherlock, please forgive me…" Sherlock silenced him with one more hard kiss, pulling back to stare deeply into John's eyes.

"Don't. It's me who should be begging for forgiveness. I'm so sorry for what I did. When I heard what happened on the news, I- my world collapsed John. There wasn't any point in living in a world that didn't have you in it. I love you so much. Don't ever leave me again." They embraced again, holding onto each other as if their lives depended on it. Maybe they did. When their lips met this time, it wasn't with desperate passion but with relieved reverence. Sherlock kissed John as if he was made of glass and John kissed back just as carefully. With more slow movements, John pushed away from the wall, leading Sherlock in the direction he assumed was the bedroom.

Sherlock barely registered as the back of his knees hit his bed and both of them fell onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs. Still, they kissed slowly, worshipping each other to make up for every hour that they had spent apart. Layers of clothing were removed without thought and the first touch of skin on skin caused a gasp from both men. Sherlock sat back to take in the sight of the body he hadn't seen since before John's deployment. Every muscle was harshly defined with every flex of minute movements and, in the early afternoon light that diffused through the curtains, each scar was clearly visible. There were some small cuts that were white lines against a tan canvas, while others were marked by raised skin that stood out pink instead. There, on his shoulder, was a puckered tangle of mutilated flesh where a bullet had ripped through his skin. With shaking fingers, Sherlock traced this mark, John's breathing still shallow.

"I thought you were gone. I was so scared…" John raised his hand to cover Sherlock's.

"I made you a promise, and whether you wanted to see me to or not, I wasn't going to break it. I told you I would come back to you." Sherlock could only nod in understanding before leaning down to capture his lover's lips again. The last of their clothing was lost to the floor and Sherlock straddled John's hips, lining his erection up to his long-unused entrance. John stopped him with a hand on his waist. Sherlock's eyes took in John's furrowed brow.

"You don't want..?" he began, but John quickly shook his head.

"Of course I want to you daft git. You have to let me get you ready though, I could hurt you…"

"I've waited long enough John. Nothing could hurt more than the pain of thinking you were dead. I want this pain. I want to know without a doubt that you are here with me. I want to feel everything. Please John… Please let me have this…" At Sherlock's pleading tone, John nodded slowly, raising his hand to spit into his palm before a fumbled excuse of lubricating his prick. When John looked back up at Sherlock, the same pleading look was there and without another word, he moved to press into the ring of muscles above him. The feeling of being stretched after so long was nearly more than Sherlock's body could stand. Still, he let his hips fall centimeter by centimeter until John was completely buried in his aching body.

"Oh, yes…" John's voice came out in a hiss, his eyes rolling back as his brain was flooded with the feeling of Sherlock tight and hot around him. "Oh fuck, Sherlock I missed you so damn much…" Sherlock whimpered in response, a tear slipping from his eyes and onto John's chest. John pulled him down for a long kiss, holding himself still until Sherlock adjusted to the feeling. Sherlock experimentally rolled his hips, causing a strangled groan of pleasure to push past John's throat.

They started slow, John whispering hushed encouragements to his lover as they gained momentum in their movements. After a while, Sherlock leaned back for better leverage and they both shouted in pleasure at the new angle. Soon their rhythm picked up, the room filled with the panted sounds of gratification as the lovers rediscovered each other's bodies, crying out as heat pooled in their guts. Their thrusts grew frantic as their orgasms neared and John gripped Sherlock's hips to pull him down harder.

"Oh God, Sherlock, I love you so much… Marry me... Marry me, my love…" Sherlock cried, his orgasm piercing him like a bullet.

"Yes, John, yes… Yes!" With that, John came deep within Sherlock's body, pulling him down for a passionate kiss. They lay there, breathless and shaking, for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually John pulled himself out of Sherlock's body, causing a groan in the dark-haired man before they readjusted, Sherlock's cheek resting on John's chest; right over his heart.

"I'm do happy right now…" John whispered to the quiet of Sherlock's apartment.

"So am I… Please tell me you don't have to go back…" Sherlock's words were punctuated with him gripping John tighter. John merely shook his head.

"I've been invalidated. I'm ruined, in mind and in body. I can't do anything more for them."

"Mind?"

"PTSD." John whispered, lifting a hand to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "I get nightmares, certain situations cause flashbacks that are difficult to snap out of. I'm sorry, I seem to have returned to you as damaged goods…" Sherlock shook his head.

"You returned to me, that's all that matters. Everything else can be cured with time."

John smiled at this and leaned down to capture Sherlock's lips in another slow kiss. Yes, he could be made better with time. They had time now.

**Wow. So that turned into way more of a story than I thought. I wasn't going to go that in-depth with their earlier years, but what can I say, the best stories write themselves. I know that how the story went isn't probably how military stuff usually goes, time-wise, but eh it's my story and if you don't like it then don't read it again. If you did like it however, please leave a comment. Thanks for reading! Cheers.**


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